The Stages of Grief
by sessiles
Summary: Bakura's never really been fond of graveyards, let alone talking to strange boys who sit on his fiance's grave and speak as though they've known each other for years. Tendershipping, past Thiefshipping, Tornshipping. *Gore, other warnings apply.


_"Bakura, I love you." Ryou croons, taking a step closer. "I thought you loved me, too, or was that a lie?"_

_"I..." His thoughts are slow in coming, the world isn't responding, and he shakes his head slowly, stupidly. "...This was an accident."_

_There is no response. Impassive, impassive, and when - Bakura looks back in his mind, wonders when it got so bad. How did it come to this? He's never felt so weak, so tired, in his entire life, like his body (or maybe his soul, whispers a sly voice) is shutting down._

_"I have to go." Bakura chokes out, backs away and turns without waiting for a response. He manages maybe three steps before he's running, running, and -_

* * *

The day after the funeral, it begins to rain.

It's not show-stopping, torrential rain, the kind that swirls through the gutters, keeps people indoors and away from windows. No, for the most part, life in Domino City continues, much the same as it always has.

Yet it's enough of an excuse not to visit the freshly turned grave.

Oh, he provides himself with an assortment of excuses - the roads will be dangerous, the cemetary will be swamped, driving visibility will be low...the list continues on, and he tells himself that he resents the weather, would be visiting his fallen friend if only the conditions were better.

When he stops to think about it, though, _really_ think about it and be honest with himself, a strange feeling worms its way through his gut. He gives a name to it -_ relief_ - and tries not to question why.

On Monday, the drizzle (because that's all that it's been, really) finally fades to be replaced with tentative sunshine. The air is clean after the cleansing moisture, city life sluggishly returns to the grind, and Bakura knows his time to hide is up. He starts his old car hesitantly, the engine protesting before rumbling to life, and begins the three mile drive to Domino Cemetary.

The time is 8:47 AM - the year, 2012. He doesn't bother to purchase flowers; the gesture would feel too much like guilt, and besides, it's not like the recently deceased can appreciate it, can appreciate anything at all, for that matter.

He drives slowly.

* * *

It doesn't take long to realize someone is watching him.

He raises his eyes slowly, slowly, slowly, and

_caught._

He's staring into eyes darker than even his own, eyes that widen slightly at Bakura's glance, eyes that, for the most part, remain calm.

That's the strange part - they don't move, don't waver in the slightest, and it's that realization that keeps Bakura looking straight at him whereas he would normally look away immediately. That's what strangers do, isn't it? They catch each other's gaze and immediately redirect, glance away. The boy stares back at him with a calm, unwavering sureness, and finally Bakura breaks the silence, uneasy.

"What?" He snaps, irritated, staring right back.

At that, the boy finally reacts. With a barely-there_ flinch_, he starts, and blinks. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, polite, but with an undercurrent of excitement-dappled confusion.

"You can see me?"

Bakura stands from his bent position easily and glares, folds his arms across his chest.

"What kind of an answer is that?" He looks the kid over in disgust. "Were you expecting anything different?"

It's a while before the boy speaks again, a while before he responds in a soft-velvet voice.

"Yes, actually." he admits.

Bakura snorts in derision and leaves, grass staining his knees, dark eyes on his back and behind his eyelids.

He returns home to the life he has always known.

* * *

_Can you see me?_

Something in Bakura likens looking into a mirror to a hand struggling into a size-too-small glove.

Difficult.

Dark eyes follow his every movement quietly. He's slow, breath hitching as he watches his hands slide off his clothes in the mirror. His eyes flick up to meet his own, and he places a hand to the cold glass, pulls it back to press it to his skin, almost manages to convince his body that the touch _burns._

Bakura shivers, once, at the chilled fingers, the same ones that turn the shower knob to the coldest setting.

He lets his head roll backwards under the water, lets his mouth open, lets the water drip down his hair and face, begins to shake from the cold.

The goal was to remind himself that he was still alive.

* * *

mildly, mildly, mildly and - and -_ misery loves company._

He can feel hungry eyes on his face in a field of the dead.

Somehow, Bakura knows without looking that it's the boy from before. He waits; a minute, two, six, eleven, staring at the grave and the torn grass clenched tightly in his hand from when he sat down. He counts to ten, takes a breath, looks up swiftly, and the first thing that comes to mind is -

The boy is drinking in his face with the fervor of the zealous.

The hunger of a madman.

Bakura feels himself stumble to his feet (trip a little, struggle to rise with muscles stiff from the cold, catches and rights himself just in time) and lets the torn grass flutter from between his fingers. Each waits for the other to speak, Bakura swearing he will not be the one to break the silence as he fixes him with a fierce, challenging glare.

"...Can you see me?"

It's that question again.

Bakura's baseless anger dissipates, dew with the afternoon's sun.

"Yes," He pauses for a foolish second. "Were you expecting anything different?"

The memory of the boy's tired smile the last time they spoke - _yes, actually,_ - flashes to his mind like silver beneath the surface.

"I'm Ryou." He sidesteps the question with ease. "It's nice to meet you."

Bakura's taken aback, but he's never been the type to let emotion play across his face.

"It's nice to meet you, too."

Ryou smiles, and (with a stiffness he didn't realize his facial muscles possessed), Bakura smiles back.

It was hard to believe he could ever be dangerous.

* * *

"He's gone, you know."

Bakura says nothing - what is there to say? - the ring on his left hand is suddenly very interesting, and he twists it around his finger with a single-minded intensity.

"He's never coming back, Bakura."

A dull ache at that. Bakura winces slightly, the way he does whenever someone hurts him.

"I know."

A silence meets his words, long and suspended with the tension of a spring, stretch and /snap/.

"I know."

* * *

Discomfort melts away to be replaced with a tentative familiarity.

There is no possible way the boy could know when he visited, and yet, every time Bakura steps out of the car, Ryou is waiting by that headstone for him. He tests him, switches the days, hours. Once, he stays away for two weeks. Ryou is there when he returns, as if he had never left; the only difference is the expression of anger and reproach he fixes on Bakura.

"Don't do that to me again," He scolds, and Bakura finds himself promising.

They talk for hours each time, about everything and about nothing, until upon awakening one day, Bakura realizes he is no longer visiting his fiancee's grave. He is visiting Ryou.

The realization does not bother him.

"...You see this?" Ryou asks quietly, rubs a pianist's finger on the headstone. 1988 - 2012, it reads, and he pauses to scratch at the dash between the two numbers.

"This is the life. This single mark represents their whole life." The mournful eyes stare into his almost accusingly, testing him. "It's important, you know?"

"I know," Bakura hears himself say, and realizes he means it.

* * *

There's a stillness in the air when he steps out of the shower, a sort of tension that holds its breath and pulls it taut.

The mirror's reflection looks back at him solemnly.

_Looked in the mirror and saw a thousand me's, all numb corpse teeth in their chattering skulls..._

For no reason at all, Bakura nods to it before remembering himself.

Feeling foolish, he turns away.

* * *

"Ryou?"

The teen is sprawled out on the grass in front of him like a doll cast aside. Bakura leans back against the grave in a mocking parody of comfort.

The thoughtful eyes shift to meet his.

"Yes, Bakura?"

He loves the way Ryou says his name; softly, as though he's tasting the sound and roll of the words on his tongue. He'll never tell Ryou that, however - and hopes he never regrets not doing so. Bakura reminds himself to breathe.

"Why are you always here?"

(The tension returns, clots and thickens the air, palpable and oh-so - and for no explicable reason, Bakura suddenly has the overwhelming feeling that he's said something wrong.)

"I never leave, Bakura."

Bakura blinks, feigns a nervous chuckle, eyes Ryou to see if he's joking - quickly sobers when there is no laughter to be found in Ryou's eyes.

"...Are...you homeless?"

The thoughtful eyes leave him, return to the sky. His reply is soft, soft enough to miss if Bakura weren't already straining his ears to catch it.

"You could say that."

The conversation withers after that. He lets it die with little complaint.

* * *

"You're fading."

Bakura's mouth parts ever-so-slightly in vague bewilderment.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," The colleague replies with a strange look. "You've been so dreamy, so withdrawn. It's not like you."

This line of questioning is decidedly odd.

"I'm fine," Bakura responds curtly. "I'm fine."

"...He's not coming back, Bakura."

Yugi reaches, tries to break through the shell, scrabbles for a hold, misses and falls.

"I know." Bakura hears his voice turn cold, armor itself with jaded cynicalities and edges of insecurity.

"I know."

* * *

"It must be lonely."

As soon as he has spoken, Bakura shuts his mouth, regrets his words. Ryou regards him questioningly.

"What do you mean?"

He winces, but decides. He has began at the beginning; he might as well continue on until the end.

"Living all by yourself, here."

Ryou laughs softly; he chuckles so often, as though everything Bakura does is in the pursuit of humor.

"I'm not alone, Bakura."

Ryou smiles strangely, and when he speaks again, his demeanor has shifted. He has become a teacher explaining a concept to a slow child.

"They're all around us." Ryou waves an arm vaguely. "They're jealous that you can see me, that we've found each other."

Bakura says nothing.

"It...It _does_ get so lonely, you know." Ryou whispers suddenly, hugs his knees to his chest. "When you're not here."

Melancholy weighs on his heart, then, strikes him so hard and heavily that he just -

Bakura comforts him the only way he can think to.

They kiss on Malik Ishtar's grave, and he can only feel hollow.

* * *

He should be working, but he'll settle back in his chair in the dark office, anyway, shut the blinds and turn off the light and -

Yugi knocks on the locked door, but he ignores it. He has no room in his life for hearing about...that. Meaningless words, empty words, comfort meant to be given that falters, shudders and_ dies_, and the boy will never give up because he just _doesn't get it._

There's a strip of skin feebly hanging beside one of the nails of his left hand, and he picks at it, worries the skin with dirty fingernails. It peels away slowly, clinging to the finger with everything it has. Raw, pink flesh is exposed, puckered and shining with maybe a spot or two of blood welling out, and suddenly he's disgusted, sucks at the finger with a revolted grimace.

(He knows that obsessing with hangnails and other such mild wounds is a thing for children, but he can't help but to feel that if there were a scab or a cut or anything else he found, he'd pick at that, too.)

* * *

He's not sure how he ended up in the graveyard. He has no memory of driving, no memory of even deciding to go, and yet Ryou's waiting for him by the grave. Expected. He's calm, serene.

"Bakura," He greets cordially, a slight dip of his head passing as a polite nod. "I want to talk to you."

Bakura sits across from him, folds his legs in mimicry of Ryou's own pose.

"I want to talk to you, too, Ryou." He's overly aware of his dry tongue in his mouth, the pace of his breathing.

"You first." Ryou smiles distantly. "You first."

Bakura clears his throat, swallows.

"I want you to come live with me." Bakura explains, his voice calmer than he feels. "I don't like the thought of you without someplace to go. Come live with me."

Ryou's bangs fall into his eyes with the first few words, his smile shifting into a frown.

"I would love to."

Bakura relaxes, grins. "Then let's-"

"I wasn't finished."

Bakura pauses, startled, uneasy.

"I would love to, but I can't."

(He doesn't believe his ears, what a joke,_ ha-ha_, should really get my _hearing checked.._.)

"Why not?" Bakura demands, stubbornly, almost childishly. "Why not?"

"Because." Ryou smiles serenely. His fingers reach out to flit across Bakura's face, to burn and tease the skin of his cheek. "Because I can't leave, Bakura."

The world spins sickeningly, and Bakura is suddenly on his back. Ryou settles his body on top of the larger male with ease, kisses his neck.

"I can't leave, Bakura." Those eyes bore right through his being. "I'm dead."

_No_, Bakura thinks, his hand curling up to press to Ryou's neck. Ryou smiles, and it's different from before, a cruel slash. Bakura searches clumsily for a pulse.

Ryou's body begins to shake, begins to fester and _rot_ before his eyes, splits apart like a carcass in the heat. He smiles, a full, toothy grin, only it's no longer Ryou, but a grinning death's head and a shock of maggots writhing within the cheek and the skull leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips and-

and Bakura wakes in his own bed with sweat and a pounding heart.

He does not sleep again.

* * *

There are few words spoken the next time Bakura visits. If something in the atmosphere has changed, Ryou shows no sign of noticing; they sit, bodies pressed together, a shy hand sliding into Bakura's with a kiss to the cheek.

"I really like you, you know." informs Ryou mildly.

"I...I'm glad." Bakura's mouth dries. Never has he felt so out of his element, but Ryou and his pale, quiet confidence has that effect on him; fills him with detached longing, reduces him again to a mumbling, gangly teenager, uncomfortable in his own skin. "I...like you too, Ryou."

Ryou's thumb strokes his hand gently, an unspoken_ I know._ He turns his head into Bakura's hair, kisses his neck. Bakura shivers, and lets his head fall back to allow him access to more skin.

The body beside him shifts, and weight settles on top of Bakura; weight as Ryou slides into his lap coyly, presses his lips to Bakura's shoulder. Bakura hears rather than feels his breathing heighten, registers Ryou undoing the first button on his shirt.

"W-Wait." Bakura rasps, swallows, his throat flexing against Ryou's lips. His fingers fumble to wrap around Ryou's hands, not exactly _pulling away_, but halting their progress. There is something inherently _wrong_ about where this is heading, something he can't quite place his finger on, something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Ryou pauses without really moving away. Bakura-half realizes that he is trembling, and distantly asks himself when he became so...so...

"I know you want me." Ryou murmurs, nuzzles into his neck. Desire flares through Bakura as Ryou shifts against his hip. "I want you."

His voice is low and husky, and his fingers weave into Bakura's, pull them away to continue unbuttoning his shirt. Frozen, Bakura lets Ryou guide his hands to the slender waist without further protest, and this time Ryou's cold, wet lips meet his mouth and not his neck.

He produces a condom from some remote pocket, and all Bakura can think as he's pushed onto his back is _tastes like death, tastes like death, numb corpse teeth in a chattering skull -_

* * *

He doesn't _care_ how many hours it's been, he doesn't _care_ how long he's spent in the shower scrubbing at his skin with soap and nails until he bleeds, he doesn't care doesn't care_ doesn't care_ because he is dirty and filthy and_ he will never be clean._

Fucking in a graveyard, dead bodies all around and below, and it sounds it sounds it sounds like the line of a song by some greasy garage band. _Fucking in a graveyard, dead bodies all around and below, woah-oh,_ and the singer will have white hair and eyes that see too much and a crooked streak of a line for a grin._ Woah-oh, woah-oh-oh,_ and Bakura sinks his nails into the skin of his thighs, raises his head to look in the mirror.

The man who stares back, it's the face of someone who - someone who fucked in a graveyard _on his fiancee's grave._ He laughs dully, and the sound chokes out through his breathing (harsh and ragged like he's ran for a marathon, no, for his_ life_), twists into almost a sob of despair.

**How how did he feel inside you?** A voice sings. Horror rises, claws at his chest to see Malik Ishtar stare accusingly at him from the mirror.** Fucking on my grave, tell me it at least felt _good._**

"I...no." Bakura moans, closes his eyes, shakes his head wildly. "I didn't, I didn't!"

**Don't lie to don't lie to to me**. His image flickers.** Saw, I saw, he fucked you into the ground and you you liked it, _you liked it_. Ba-Bakura_ liked it._**

He screams, then, screams and screams and his jaw slackens with a _numb corpse teeth did you like it did you like it DID YOU DID YOU LIKE IT?_ and he vomits violently into his hand, his stomach convulsing sickeningly. The bile slips through his fingers and pools on the floor around his knees.

When he looks back into the mirror, there is only Bakura, Bakura ten thousand times, wide-eyed Bakura, shaking Bakura, Bakura with his drying blood under his fingernails and his own sick smeared across his face and in his hair.

Drip drip_ drop,_ it drips to the floor, and _fucking in a graveyard,_ woah-oh, _dead bodies all around,_ woah-oh-oh -

* * *

He stays away for a month this time, the longest he's been away, but an ache of longing begins to pulse through him, tug at his being. It's not long before he decides to go back. Why not? Of course he goes back, of course.

He visits early in the morning, several hours before work and the rise of the sun. Bakura jams the key into its ignition with shaking fingers and as he drives, he realizes with a sort of sick happiness that it's been one year. One year since Malik died, one year since Ryou waited for him by the grave, the grave that they -

No. His knuckles whiten with the clenching of the steering wheel, knuckles dotted with marks from his own gnawing teeth, gnaw gnaw gnaw and a snap snap _snapping_ jaw. From road to lot to the opening of the door to footsteps to earth crunching beneath his feet to breath hanging in the air to -

to the boy leaning against the grave.

"Bakura," he greets. Bakura searches his face for an accusation, a_ why-did-you-leave-me-you-said-you-wouldn't-do-that-again-you-promised_, finds none. Ryou is calm, smiles as he pats the ground beside him, sighs happily as he orders _sit _and Bakura responds, his body moving automatically. Ryou's side presses into his and there's a gentle hand on his cheek, then, a coaxing tug that turns his face and cold lips that press to his.

"I missed you." Ryou strokes Bakura's face with a single thumb, his eyes never leaving him. He swallows roughly, tastes bile again. "Where were you?"

"...I was sick." Bakura admits truthfully. Ryou measures this, nods almost knowingly.

"I'm sorry to hear it." says Ryou, but his voice holds no apology. He kisses Bakura again, and Bakura lets him, lets Ryou's lips move against his unresponsive ones.

There's small talk for a while, of movies and work and the stars. When the horizon begins to lighten, he stands, stiff muscles protesting. Ryou kisses him goodbye, his hand trailing down his neck, with final words of parting that send chills down his spine.

"Keep your body in good shape for me."

* * *

Never has he felt so dead, he thinks numbly. No energy, dead to the world, he feels like a puppet with strings lying slack, maybe even -

"...even listening to me, Bakura?"

He snaps back to awareness, is met with wide-eyed concern. He burns under the searching haze, senses disappointment thickly radiating from Yugi. For an instant, his mind toys with the idea of a whole discolored cloud of let-downs and false hopes, surrounding him and choking him and he'd die, then, die with wide eyes (bright with fear) and a mouth open to gasp for a last breath and an expression of horror (or maybe relief) -

"There are bags under your eyes." The disapproval rolls off of him in waves, and suspicion dances across his features. "Are you sure you're okay? You haven't been acting like-"

"Like myself. I know." Bakura cuts him off hoarsely, coughs with a wince and waves a dismissive hand. He laughs without humor. "Believe me, I know."

"You were getting better for a while." He peers at him strangely, an odd look on his face. "What's happening to you?"

"I-" He stops, closes his mouth, feels the familiar_ tug_ gape inside him like a reopened wound.

_I, I, and I wish I knew, knew knew knew knew kn-_

* * *

"I love you, you know?" Ryou hums, pulls Bakura's head into his lap and strokes a hand through his hair. "You're perfect."

"I-" He finds his throat closing, struggles for words and comes up with none, an occurance that seemed to be increasing at an alarming rate. He shivers when Ryou brushes hair back from his eyes, his fingers cold and clammy.

"Rest." Ryou advises, bends to kiss his forehead. "Rest, rest, rest. Rest."

"It hurts." Bakura mumbles dazedly. The ache in his bones has subsided for now, but he knows it will be back. It always returns. "It hurts, Ryou, oh god, and it only stops when you're - "

Ryou presses a soft kiss to his lips to silence him. "I know." He murmurs. His breath washes over Bakura's face, cold and sweet with the faintest tinge of dust, dust and the sort of staleness you'd find in an unopened attic.

"...It hurts." Bakura groans again, feels his eyes roll back in their sockets as his eyelids drop.

"Talk to me. It'll be over soon. Talk to me about something you like." Ryou's hand dances through his hair, combs out the tangles. "Tell me about Malik."

An odd request. Bakura doesn't bother to ask how he knows the name; they have never really discussed this before, despite all their meetings occuring on his grave. The pain lessens slightly.

"He was-" Bakura's voice shakes, and he swallows, tries to steady it. "He was s-strong. And his laugh was nice. He was the kind of kid to...to store dead bodies in trunks, you know?" Bakura laughs distantly, grimacing at the crazed tone he has unwittingly taken on. "And he..._god,_ he was beautiful."

"Beautiful like me?" Ryou teases, shifts Bakura on his lap.

"Yeah." He wets his lips. "Both of you. You're so beautiful."

The pain is lessened some by both the memory and Ryou's cool hand on his cheek. He leans into the touch gratefully, feeling feverish as sweat breaks out across his brow.

"I love him." Bakura voices quietly. "I love him. I love...I _loved_ him. Oh, god, I miss him. I miss him so much."

"He loves you, too." Ryou soothes. "He misses you everyday."

Too tired to question the present tense, Bakura presses his face into Ryou's stomach, feels him shake with gentle laughter. Hands slide down his chest and up under his shirt, and he sighs peacefully, peacefully, peaceful relax happy _content_ when suddenly he realizes that he can still feel Ryou's hands, seperate from the newcomer's, near his head, and that there is there is _there is someone else touching him._

Bakura's eyes shoot open and he jolts backwards, nearly knocks Ryou over, and the owner of the hands that greet him is they are he is _please god no devils devils chattering someone help me-_

Malik Ishtar smiles calmly at him, and Bakura screams, screams into Ryou's hand, screams even as his fiancee his his oh god his _dead fiancee_ leans in for a kiss and he tastes like death, _numb numb corpse teeth in a in a in chattering skulls -_

* * *

"All you need is love, all you need is love." Ryou sings softly, and Bakura feels his cracked lips almost twist into a smile at the old song. "All you need is love, love - love is all you need...oh, are you awake, Bakura?"

His breathing is so_ ragged_ now, and it's almost funny, oh god, it's _hilarious_, and he can feel his tongue desperately wetting his lips as the world returns to him, can feel his heart pounding, and he remembers, he remembers, he remembers he remembers even as he feels Ryou's hands in his hair and another pair touching his neck.

"...Stop it..."

"Relax, Bakura." Malik's face is inches from his, now, larger than life and the the the universe.

"You're...you're not..." Revulsion pounds through him, gives him the momentary strength to push them away. He scrambles out of Ryou's lap and to his feet weakly, and he is - is he already out of breath?

"Bakura..." Ryou warns. Both stand, both face him, and Bakura, and Bakura, and Bakura backs away slowly, is this his story, is this, is this, and how does it_ end?_

"You're...you're not_ real_." He hears himself protest, shudder. "Stay away from me. Don't touch me. You're not real."

"I'm real enough." Malik flashes him the same old smile, the one that says_ I'm feigning innocence, does it show?_ and for a second, his heart stops. "Didn't you feel my hands, earlier?"

"Bakura, I love you." Ryou croons, taking a step closer. "I thought you loved me, too, or was that a lie?"

"I..." His thoughts are slow in coming, the world isn't responding, and he shakes his head slowly, stupidly. "...This was an accident."

There is no response. Impassive, impassive, and when - Bakura looks back in his mind, wonders when it got so_ bad_. How did it come to this? He's never felt so weak, so tired, in his entire life, like his body (or maybe his soul, whispers a sly voice) is shutting down.

"I have to go." Bakura chokes out, backs away and turns without waiting for a response. He manages maybe three steps before he's running, running, and -

Pain sears through him, hot and acidic, his muscles cramping and his lungs protesting and his body falling apart all at once. He leans heavily against the nearest tombstone, feels his stomach churn disgustingly inside him, can almost imagine intestines spilling out of his mouth if he lets it go (intestines and blood and maybe flies and all the things never said) and this is this is_ the end._

"I don't understand." He says feebly, weakly, childishly. Ryou stares at him (impassively, of course, of course of course of course), and Malik is beside him, and how did he how did he not notice.

"Don't you don't you love me?" Malik asks sorrowfully, the shape of his lips not quite matching the words (like badly synced-audio, like someone who's forgotten how to speak), and Bakura's mouth opens and closes for a minute.

"...I love you." Bakura shudders. "I always have."

"Join me?" Malik is closer, now, and if Bakura looks too closely he sees the _wrongness_ of the image, the way the skin shifts as though it's ready to fall off and god save him if he had to see what was underneath. Malik's clammy hands take his wrists, pull him closer for a kiss, and he makes no move to pull away. "Join join join me, Ba-Bakura?"

Their lips press together, living Bakura and rotting flesh, and (tastes like death, tastes like dust and death, just like_ just like Ryou_-) and a second pair of lips press to the side of his throat from behind. Bakura groans helplessly.

"I love you, Bakura." Ryou breathes into his neck. His arms encircle him briefly, and he presses their bodies together, arranges his limbs to match Bakura's from behind. He realizes with horror that Ryou's flesh is singing him, melting into his with no more resistance than a stone dropped into water.

"Stop-" Malik muffles him with a kiss, and it's no longer Malik, but a grinning skull _and he can see hell in those eyes_. Bakura breaks away to gasp for air, struggles, and he _does_ vomit then, only a little, there's nothing in his stomach but a small amount of bile that dribbles down his face and onto his shirt with a sickening shiver of his whole body. "S-Stop!"

"Born to die, you were born to die." Ryou sings and it's then that -_ it's then that -_

Ryou steps into him, physically_ steps_ into him, and he can hear screams and only some of them are his own and it's in that moment, it is, it is that his mind brushes the infinite, almost comprehends it. Bakura's eyes widen, and he sees past, past Malik and into - _into -_

He falls backwards, the vision broken, falls backwards and his body his body _his body remains standing_. His body turns to face him, and he smiles Ryou's smile, walks away. He recoils, (there is something deeply horrifying, in the truest sense of the word, about seeing your body move and smile without your control) too stunned to move, watches as he unlocks his car door and steps inside and -

"We are we are alone now, baby." Malik slides a hand up his shirt, forces him onto the ground, kisses him despite the sick smeared on his lips. "You you fucked him on my grave. Give me a a turn."

There are maggots in his smile and blood on his lips, and Bakura would vomit again if there were anything left in his stomach. He dry-heaves for a moment, and Malik only continues to kiss him, pull off his shirt and his mouth stretches and there are wicked incisors and he moves closer and _oh god oh god and_

and

and Bakura

and Bakura sobs for the first time, loud enough to to to wake the comatose, feels Malik's (but it's not Malik, is it, not Malik, not really) suddenly sharp teeth close on his lip, snap and_ tear_ away his flesh and he can see the demon chew it slowly and swallow with a seductive purr.

There's no fight left in him as the thing undresses him, shoves into him with no lubrication but blood, and Bakura can only slump backwards as the thing slams into his body, eats him alive.

* * *

Something in Ry-_Bakura_ likens looking into a mirror to a body sliding into water.

Easy.

There's a stillness in the air when he steps out of the shower, a welcoming lift that wraps around him lovingly, whispers _welcome to life._

The mirror's reflection looks back at him happily.

_Looked in the mirror and saw a thousand me's, all numb corpse teeth in their chattering skulls..._

For no reason at all, Bakura nods to it, laughs.

"All you need is love..." He continues to hum under his breath, even as he's getting dressed, even as he drives, even as the other boy smiles, says _Bakura, you look a lot better today._

_I am_, he replies, with a grin. _I am I am I am I am I am I AM I AM I -_

* * *

**end**

_review?_


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